"At the end we only stop to think at the old saying “every beginning has it’s end” … that’s who we are, lovers and supporters of reality when it strikes us hard and when we least expect it. When we’re in the middle of something good we live up in the sky, “everything is possible if you only try”, “there is no impossible, the word itself says I’m possible”, but then, when we are at our best, when we see the top of the mountain, when it takes another step or two to fix the flag and call ourselves conquerors, reality strikes, it pokes us like a cobra hidden in the evergreen of Eden, and then we do what we know best, we lift our shoulders (filled with reality and judgment, late as always) and we just say “every beginning has it’s end” and then … we move on by creating the very well-known scenarios “ WHAT IF?” Our problem is not that we are not able to think, to search within the fragile files of “reality” when we start dreaming, our problem is that we cannot hit the “pause button” to take a deep breath of reality before sinking back into the thick smoke of dreams.
Let’s admit it, when the coffee is perfect, you drink it to the last drop, without pouring some more to risk ruining the taste. It’s exactly as in real life. The story is perfect, why try to find something that could ruin it, the dream is sweet, why should you wake up when it’s Sunday and the alarm clock is hidden in the last drawer?
Let’s say that we prefer to drink the coffee to the last drop (yes we do hope that it will never finish, that we are the lucky ones that got the magical cup that never leaves the coffee to end) when we finish it, why do we adopt the “oh well, it eventually had to finish” attitude. It’s ok in the end if we just throw the cup in the sink and get started on a brand new day, but no, we linger. The question is why do we linger on that empty cup hoping that we could find a last drop somewhere. It takes us a minute or two to realize that the coffee is gone and that the day is at it’s very beginning, that we have to get up and start it with a big smile on our face. The coffee was perfect and it fulfilled it’s purpose, it gave us energy to START ANOTHER DAY.
That short period of time that we waste until we remember ourselves that it’s morning is a slow murder to the soul. Day by day we waste minutes, and they gather up, bit by bit, and we find ourselves old and thinking we could have had at least a month of smiles if we hadn’t wasted them on lingering.
That’s why when the dream ends, when IT ends, we don’t have to think that it was meant to and analyze the factors that lead to the unavoidable end, but smile and say that every beginning do has it’s end, and not forget the fact that every beginning or ending is followed by other beginnings and endings. It’s the normal circle of life, I guess. Complicated? Yes it is! Because we are used to waking up from time to time, and we are comfortable with the idea of staying in bed for a couple of more minutes to remember the dream we had, and maybe to try to leap back in it for a few more moments.
NO! the alarm goes off, screw the dream, we have another fresh new day to start. We’ll have plenty of time to try to remember it when we go back to sleep. Just think about the advantages."
-Another perfect lie for the consumers, I said while sending my last article to the magazine. I only wonder when will come the time when I'll actually believe in what I write, or at least try to take into consideration my own sane advices ...
I'm sorry, I'm rude, we haven't met yet. I'm an ordinary girl, living an ordinary life, in a more then ordinary town. The only thing that makes a difference between me and all the other ordinary people that surround me is the fact that today I decided to make a difference, to make a statement, to tell you a little story, a story about a girl that I once knew.
Once upon a time, in another life She lived and really enjoyed it. She was considered a pretty, naive little girl that knew nothing about the world she was living in or about the earthquake that will soon shatter the perfectly boring tranquility she was living in. It all started with a CHANGE, a new beginning. Some people call it the permanent stain of color on the painted veil of life, other people call it the true sensation of life, I call it a dragonfly with an acute death wish, if you care for my opinion, but let's continue with the story.
She knew nothing about love, about suffering, about any real emotion until the day She met Him. A wonderful story, with delightful adventures and an Austen sent, it's a shame for the Shakespearian ending. They lived and breathed for each other, they were the lost myth of the androgen. Friends told them they looked alike, the happily dove couples in the park fainted when they strolled around, hand in hand, with a shared joy of the little small things that defined their perfect togetherness.
The air stanched of a little chrysalis "but" that waited softly to bloom into a grand "what if" butterfly. "When everything is going right, there must be something deeply wrong" an old saying emerged into their douse minds. That's when the doubt came in, that's when they stopped living the moment and started analyzing the future, that's when the "but" came in.
Dreadful little creatures the "but" and the "what if". They work hand in hand like coffee and a cigarette, like Bonnie and Clyde, like Batman and Robin, what the hell am I saying, like the Joker and Two-Face. The first one is the "but" he's like a seed of “ergot de siècle”, prospering in our mind and soul, ultimately bringing plague and destruction. It’s like the “but” is the sneaky Devil that, as he was strolling around in the garden of Eden, watching Adam and Eve loving each other, being happy in their miserable innocence, decided to take some action and convince the naïve little Eve to take a bite from the sour apple of reality. And then after you pen your eyes, after you get hit by the glacy shards of reality that pokes you, millions of pieces per second, you submerge yourself into an ocean of fake calm, wondering, pondering, “what if?”. They go hand in hand like a fire and menthol calming gel. There could not be one without the other, always in the same order, always there to strike like a cobra at an anniversary picnic.
So, there They were, happy together, until the “but” came in. it was like a bite from an old dog that you fed for more than fifteen years, unexpected and hurtful. The moment the “but” decided to ruin everything, was the moment they pushed their invisible self-destruction button. Neither She or Him told each other what they did, but slowly, inside their brain and heart, the “but” worm grew bigger and bigger, feeding on their weak human emotions, feeding on their energy, feeding on them.
After a few months of torture they finally came to the point where the “but” should have naturally occurred. After tormenting their sleep, and torturing themselves with a sadistic urge of emotional self-destruction, they realized all of it was in vain. They wasted precious time on scenarios that could have put the “but” to sleep, that they forgot that “carpe diem” was not just a silly little latin saying that was handy when in need of a prompt advice. So there they were, hungry for each other, with only one decision to make. Is it fight or flight?
Choice, a miserable little action we’re forced into from time to time. It may seem neutral, but if you look into it, you’ll see it’s filled with darkness. In a life filled with light we never have to choose, we just go where our steps take us. But a choice was imperious, and both of them had to embrace it. Sadly, they did.
“I want you to promise me that you will never let me go!” That’s what She used to tell Him, laying in bed, while He gently caressed her face. Now that image haunted Her, every step she took. Every breath was an image, like an old film that ruptures at one point and shows the same scene over and over again, until it goes black. “Never let me go!”
“God, our love is snuff, and weirdly, we have to do it, we have to kill it, kill each other in our hearts so that we could move on” She said to Him, while tears dropped furiously on their joined hands.
“yes, it’s our best option, if we don’t do it, we will never be able to let go”, He replied, eyes closed, teeth clenched, so that the tears that threatened like a hurricane, won’t stop him from saying what he didn’t meant.
And so, they mutually decided to kill each other in their souls, so that their lives would go on. It was a joined decision, individually contested. They both went on their own paths. That was the last day that they saw each other, that was the real time of their death, one to another, and individually.
Her last memory of Him, of Them, was a kiss in the summer rain that was pouring over their bodies as a last, much to discrete, sign. They should have known that the rain wasn’t there to wash away their tears, but their decision.
Sometimes, we understand the signs with our heart, but our brain refuses to cope. Sometimes, and only when we should really function as an well-oiled machine, our brain gets clouded with power, takes the name of the supreme dictator and ignores the murmur of the heart that demands for the right to vote. That usually happens in doubt. When in doubt, we feed our brain with possibilities and make our heart be still for a second. That’s when the brain feels that he has total control, and it enjoys that so much that he decides to ignore the heart and take a risk in the decision-making Jeopardy.
They both knew, deep down that that was the worse decision ever made, but the brain celebrated so loudly his individuality, also known as objective thinking, that the riot of the heart was considered just a side-effect of the painful procedure they were going through.
Time went by, She managed to live her dream, to be where she wanted, where she pictured herself as a small child. Only few things were quite wrong, quite not-planned. For example, She always pictured herself as more of a “at-the-scene” reporter, rather than a boring columnist. But that’s what brings the money, that’s what she’s perfect at, at this particular time in her life. She writes a weekly column at a well-known women magazine. She’s objective, accurate, heartless and always right. She’s the kind of person that everybody wants to call when in need of an advice. She’s almost famous, living an almost-perfect life. WRONG! And nothing could be more wrong. She is good at writing and giving those emotionless advices because sour is the only emotion she has left besides emptiness. She’s a robot, spilling on paper lies that make her laugh at the very moment she types them, telling people what they want to hear. It’s a good self-preservation mechanism. Too bad that she lost her soul while trying to protect it.
As I said at the beginning of this little story, today is all about making a statement. And, even though She’s a girl of many words, even though I tend to lose myself in pointless (or not) details, the statement that wanted to escape from the icy cold soul that trapped it many years ago, like Prometheus wants to escape his forever painful chains, is exactly the same word that describes the perfect little lie in which she lives in, WRONG!
She/I, was wrong for thinking with my brain instead of my heart, for choosing a cheesy unhappy ending for a perfectly happy relationship. Life is not written neither by Shakespeare nor Austen. We paint our own veil, and we can choose any color we want, we adopt any style we think is suited for the moment. We mix them, we copy them, we create them. It’s all up to us. And that’s an advice that I, myself, hadn’t but will take into consideration from now on!
Publish/ Cancel. Those are the options we have after writing something that grew inside us like cupcakes in an oven. After all of it is out, on the white screen, looking back at us, we have to decide weather the cupcakes go to the store or remain in the kitchen to feed ourselves.
“Maybe it’s time I went on a diet”, she giggled while pressing the button.
What’s the best friend a person could have when that person is a social robot that reacts like any other human beings, except for the moments where all the people crawl away to mind their own pitiful lives and that person remains by itself, shedding the social-built armor and remaining naked, vulnerable, exposed?
The answer, if you haven’t gave it yet, is alcohol. In Her case, a big, juicy, fruit-flavored glass of wine. So after pushing the button, she finished her glass of rose, put out the Marlboro filter that burned her fingers and went to sleep. Why bother shutting down the computer, she’ll wake up thinking about another specie of “lie seed” to be planted into a Word document. She’ll help it grow as the week passes by, so at the end of it, another wave of hungry readers will be fed.
The sheets smell divine, their texture wraps around her body like the silk used to spoil a Hindu princess. Sleep was about to take her into his unpredictable embrace, when a familiar sound startled her.
“You’ve got mail!”
It’s funny how a little everyday thing can create such a fuss in our guts when we did something out of the ordinary.
“it’s just a spam, or a reply from an eager reader”, She said to herself while hopping it’s just another white line on her gray veil. But sleep just fainted away, living her wondering on the fields of curiosity in her bed formed now by pointy, little nails.
Curiosity is a constant itch that cannot be ignored. No matter how many calming thoughts you feed to it, trying to suppress it, it always passes with a simple scratch. She knew that well, so, she decided to go check the e-mail that startled her fragile sleep.
“I never was a big fan of coffee, but, reality doesn’t win the prize either. You, on the other hand … I could never get enough off.
H”
She felt her eyes weird, like they were experiencing a long forgotten feeling. It was raining in the desert, but the drops were both salty and sweet.
CHOICE once again took over. Unpredictable, mad, life full dangers or safe numbness? Reply or delete?
The problem was that the numbness disappeared at the sight of the sender. Butterflies invaded not only her stomach, but the entire room. The heart was struggling for the right to make the decision. But how can anyone make a decision when objectivity is a town in China.
Her robotic senses started to wake up, to calm her, to bring back the columnist that she created. She poured another glass of wine, lighted another cigarette, closed her eyes, and started to think(with both her heart and brain). It was time to make a good decision for herself, for a chance.
Little colored butterflies named if and maybe flew around her taking her both to Heaven and Hell.
She finished her wine, opened her eyes widely, straightened her back, and with a trace of a long lost grin that is commonly named a “smile”, she pushed the button.
